


nocturnes, op. 27

by weatheredlaw



Series: the little prince [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clones, Gen, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Sometimes, the worldissoft, even though it can take you years and years to find it.or: caboose just wants to keep a secret. wash just wants to be a good friend.





	nocturnes, op. 27

**Author's Note:**

> more clone!caboose fic. i made myself sad.

The apartment building is battered from months of fighting, but it does, technically, belong to them now. Caboose thinks it isn’t _so_ great that all the buildings they ever get anymore are kind of broken, but Smith tells him they can be fixed, which is nice. It’s good when broken things can get better.

Wash has Caboose and his team canvas the bottom floor. Smith and the others get focused on what they think might be a pipe bomb, and Caboose gets distracted. This building used to be beautiful, he can tell. The tile is chipped and cracked, but it’s marble, which even he knows is fancy. Paintings lay in pieces on the floor, or barely clinging to the walls.

And in the the largest room on the bottom floor, there’s a piano.

Caboose’s breath catches in his throat, and he _just_ —

He takes his helmet off. Wash says he’s not supposed to, but Wash is upstairs and right now Caboose has to hear and see everything _right._ He sets his helmet on top of the piano and reaches out to touch the keys. To press them down. The first note sounds like glass breaking, and so do the ones that follow. _Le mal du pays_ , he thinks. _Years of pilgrimage._ His dad always said he was bad at remembering stuff, but Caboose remembers this, these first few sharp, bitter notes in a song about missing home.

“Caboose?”

Caboose turns. Wash is standing in the doorway, helmeted head tipped to the side. Caboose steps back, fumbles with his helmet and listens for the seal to close. “Tucker did it,” he says, stepping back and taking the piano bench with him.

Wash sighs. “Helmets need to stay _on_ , Caboose. It’s dangerous in here.”

“I _know._ ”

Wash takes a step forward, which means he probably wants to ask more questions. Caboose really doesn’t want to answer questions right now.

“Caboose, do you know how to play the piano?”

“It’s too many questions,” Caboose says, and turns away. “I don’t want to answer questions.”

Wash sighs again. “Alright, Caboose. I’m sorry.”

“Well...well you _should_ be.” Caboose walks out of the room and finds his team who have realized the pipe bomb is _not_ a pipe bomb and have gotten as distracted as their captain.

On the transport ship back to base, Caboose takes off his helmet again and leans back, closing his eyes and hearing music.

“ _Le mal du pays_. _It’s...a very terrible homesickness. But it’s a very beautiful piece of music. Would you like to learn it, M?_ ”

“Yes,” he murmurs, and hears it until they land.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Wash looks at Caboose and he sees the man with greying hair around his temples and the worry lines around his eyes. Caboose has neither of these — he has the beginnings of crow’s feet, from smiling, a small bit of grey, because his life these years has been hard. But his face is still youthful, and he laughs more than most.

And he was smiling, when he touched the piano.

Wash knows Caboose doesn’t want to talk about it, that he would rather keep his years on the moon to himself. It’s why he goes to him on his own, after training. Caboose is peeling the wraps off his hands, breathing heavy from going at the bag for a while.

“Hey, Caboose.”

“Hi, Wash.” Caboose takes a long drink of water. “Did you see me? I did it for a long time today.”

“You’re looking good.” Wash leans against the wall, watches Caboose flex his fingers and look down at them with pride. “I know you didn’t want to answer the other day, at the apartment.”

“Answer what?”

“The question. About the piano.”

“The piano…” Caboose thinks for a moment before his expression darkens. “No,” he says. “I did not.”

“...Can I ask you now?”

Caboose sighs. “Agent Washington, you are being very rude.”

“I know. I shouldn’t keep asking, Caboose, but I really want to know this about you. Could you share it with me? Please,” he adds. Things like that matter to Caboose.

And it seems to help. His expression softens and he looks up at Wash, eyes wrinkling with a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “I can play piano.”

“Did you learn on the moon?”

Caboose nods. “My mom taught me for a while. Then Dr. Saratoga taught me. Then someone else. I used to play for people when I got really good.”

 _For potential buyers_ , Wash thinks. He’s read the documentation. He knows. “Do you miss it?”

Caboose shrugs. “A little.”

“Would you...like to play again?”

Cabose looks up sharply. “There is no where to _play_ here, Agent Washington.” He stands, now, towering over Wash. “This is a war. There is no time for pianos in war.”

“Did you hear that somewhere?” Wash asks.

Caboose scowls. “You’re being nosy again, and I do not like it.” And he turns and walks out.

* * *

“Is there a...piano, Agent Washington?”

“Yes. On the base. Like in a room somewhere, maybe tucked away—”

Kimball sighs. “I’ll sort out why in a moment, but what would make you think we had a piano?”

“Should have asked Doyle,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, look. Maybe there isn’t one here, but could I _get_ one. From somewhere.”

“Wash.” Kimball leans forward. “You want to requisition a _piano._ ”

“...I know how that sounds.”

“Do you?” She taps her pen on the desk. “Alright, look, I’ll see what I can find. But is there a specific reason?”

“Caboose can play the piano.”

Kimball blinks. “I’m...sorry. It sounds like you just told me Captain _Caboose_ is a pianist. Let’s try again.”

“I’m being serious. There’s some things you don’t know—”

“You mean about the captain’s status as...a clone.”

Wash frowns. “How—”

“Emily told me. She felt that I should know, but she asked I keep it to myself. I’m a busy woman, Wash. I don’t have time to share company secrets. And I have no intention of telling the captain what I know.”

“He’s surprisingly guarded about it.”

“Well. I would imagine.” Kimball goes back to her tablet. “He lost everything.” Silence hangs between them. Kimball looks up again. “I’ll see what I can find, Wash.”

* * *

A week later, Wash gets a call from Kimball over his HUD while he’s working with a unit of solidiers in the field

“ _Don’t ask where I found it or how I got it there, but there’s a piano in your quarters._ ”

“What do—” Wash stops jogging and grins behind his helmet. “Are you serious?”

“ _Very. I’d like to know how this pans out, Agent._ ” And she hangs up.

Wash finishes the training session and gets back to base. He gets out of his armor and changes, making his way to their shared quarters. No one is there, but Kimball is absolutely right — there’s a piano in the sitting room. It’s smaller than the one they found in the apartment, but he presses one of the keys and it sounds alright. One of his sisters played piano, years ago.

He’s still standing by it when the door opens and the Reds and Blues come in, squabbling over something, talking over one another.

Tucker stops and points at the piano. “This is why we don’t let you decorate, dude. What’s with this?”

“It’s, uh, it’s a gift.”

Simmons crosses the room and touches a few keys. “I always wanted to play. My dad said the violin would be better.”

“Nerd,” Grif says, but not unkindly.

From behind Donut, Caboose says quietly, “I asked you not to.”

Wash steps forward. “I just wanted to do this for you—”

“You don’t listen to me,” Caboose says, louder now. “You just...none of you. None of you listen.” He looks up and his expression is...angry. Wash doesn’t see it get like that very often. Caboose clenches his fists by his side. “I told you I didn’t _want_ to talk about it. I didn’t want to _play._ And you just....just... _won’t listen!_ ” Caboose shoves past Donut and stomps to his room, slamming the door.

Tucker looks at Wash. “...What the fuck is up with him?”

* * *

It’s kind of par for the course that every so often Caboose will have a meltdown. Carolina comes in a while later, asks where Caboose is, and isn’t really surprised that he’s shut up in his room, having refused to join them in the mess.

When they get back, Wash goes to Caboose’s room and knocks gently on the door before trying the handle. It opens and Wash steps into the dark room.

“Caboose?”

Caboose sighs in response.

“Caboose, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“...I do not forgive you,” Caboose answers, his voice small.

Wash nods and goes over to the bed, sitting on the floor next to it. Caboose shifts away, turning his back to him.

“I should have talked to you more.”

“No,” Caboose says. “You should have listened.”

Wash nods.”You’re right. I wasn’t listening when I should have been. You just...you looked happy, that day. When you were looking at the piano. I wanted to help.” Wash turns his head to the side. “You lost a lot. I just wanted to give something back to you.”

Caboose is quiet for a bit. Wash sits in the cool dark of the room and just waits.

Eventually, Caboose says, “I never lost that part. I can still play.” He pauses. “I think.”

Wash huffs a laugh. “Well. There’s only one way to know.”

“...Maybe.” Caboose looks over his shoulder. “Can I go back to sleep?”

“You’re not hungry?” Caboose just shrugs. “Alright.” Wash pushes himself up. “I’ll listen better, Caboose. I promise.”

Caboose nods. “Okay. I believe you.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose gets up the next morning and finds their quarters empty. He goes to the mess and gets an apple, walking outside and chewing on it before tossing the core into the garbage and going back upstairs.

The piano is still there, and Caboose can still hear the soft, glass sounds of the one in the apartment. He bets this one sounds a _lot_ nicer.

A memory comes, unbidden —

_“His memory’s not that great, Ev. I don’t know if an instrument is the right way to go—”_

_“We won’t know unless we try. Besides, it’s not about memorization. It’s about practice. Muscle memory. That’s different.”_

_“...Alright. Whatever you think is best.”_

Caboose sits down at the piano. It’s a little banged up, probably from being moved, maybe from the war. Certainly not new and shiny, like the one he played on the moon, or the big one he played when people would visit. Investors, the commander always said. What was his name? He was like Sarge, but not as kind. Gruff and regimented, angry and...kind of red, actually.

 _“Impress me,”_ were his orders, and Caboose and his sisters would do one thing after another, until he seemed satisfied. He’d choose his favorites and they’d go with some of the other kids to a big room with rows of chairs and a stage built at the front of the room and perform or demonstrate whatever they’d been learning.

It had felt like a reward, when he was young.

It didn’t, as he got older.

But if he closes his eyes, he can remember his mother teaching him chords and pieces of music, her soft hands covering his, fixing his positions, straightening his posture.

_“Sit firm, M. Remember, you can do this.”_

“I can do this,” he says. He sits firm, he places his hands over the proper keys —

And he plays.

* * *

_“Mom?”_

_“Yes, M.”_

_“Do you play this song because you miss Earth?”_

_She looks at him, her eyes bright, but always sad. He wonders if it’s because of him, or because of what he is._

_Because he knows what he is._

_“Sometimes. I play it because I love it, and because it’s beautiful. Sometimes we do things just because they’re beautiful, M.”_

_“Oh.” He places his hands on the keys and nods. “Okay. I like that.”_

_Her hand reaches up to stroke the back of his head. “Can you play it for me?”_

_“I can try,” he says, and she smiles._

_“Then try your very best.”_

* * *

“So you can play.”

Caboose tears his hands from the keys as Grif comes into the room, scratching his stomach.

“Sorry!” Caboose says quickly. “I’m sorry—”

“Nah, it’s cool. Sounds good. Everyone went to check out some new ship, but I wanted to sleep before training later. When’d you learn to play?” Grif sits down on a chair, leaning forward. Caboose relaxes.

“When I was a kid. My mom taught me.”

“That’s cool. It’s like a neat, fun secret. I like it.” Grif smiles. “Can you play some more?”

“I’m not so good right now…”

Grif shrugs. “Alright. S’up to you.”

Caboose nods. Then: “...I know some other stuff. I can try to remember it.”

“For sure.” Grif leans back and closes his eyes. Caboose turns his attention back to the keys.

 _Chopin_ , he thinks. He played one of the Nocturnes, opus...twenty-seven, for the commander’s wife, once. She was softer than him, less red.

More...blue.

He stumbles over the first bit, starts and stops. Starts and stops. Grif doesn’t seem to mind. He cracks one eye open every so often. Caboose takes a breath and starts again.

Grif’s bare foot taps against the carpet.

_“This is a metronome. It keeps time. If you get lost in the piece, focus on the sound. Focus on the music.”_

_“Lost?”_

_“It moves fast, sometimes. Maybe too fast for you. Just keep focused.”_

_The metronome goes click, click, click click —_

Grif’s foot goes tap, tap, tap tap.

 _Più mosso._ More movement. He picks up his pace part way through because the piece demands it, he remembers that. Music will sometimes ask, it will occasionally suggest — and sometimes it will tell you exactly what to do and that is a language that Caboose has always understood. Instruction with reason, instruction without reason. Doesn’t matter. The piece tells him to move quicker, so he does.

But it finishes soft, and that’s something he’s always understood, too.

Sometimes, the world _is_ soft, even though it can take you years and years to find it.

Sometimes it’s just waiting there.


End file.
